


Magic Kingdom

by GeekishChic



Series: Personal Fanfic Friday Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Highly Sexual References, Fanfic Friday Personal Challenge, Fluff, M/M, Wilford Brimley Would Not At All Approve Of The Amount Of Fluff, You Know I Can't Help Myself, bit of angst, like so much fluff, rated for language, twoo wuv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A little challenge I made up for myself for this Fanfic Friday. Completing and posting by midnight, a one shot featuring the following criteria(from a facebook group I'm in):</p><p>1. The first comment of a pairing(can be no pairing or friendship pairing),<br/>2. The first comment of a scenario<br/>3. The first comment of an element it *must* include(the more random the more fun, I think).</p><p>I got:</p><p>1. Mystrade<br/>2. Anniversary<br/>3. Disneyland (Brooke I s2g... )</p><p>I'll try it out and see if I can make it a series or something, maybe featuring multiple authors. Not sure yet. We'll see how it goes.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Magic Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> A little challenge I made up for myself for this Fanfic Friday. Completing and posting by midnight, a one shot featuring the following criteria(from a facebook group I'm in):
> 
> 1\. The first comment of a pairing(can be no pairing or friendship pairing),  
> 2\. The first comment of a scenario  
> 3\. The first comment of an element it *must* include(the more random the more fun, I think).
> 
> I got:
> 
> 1\. Mystrade  
> 2\. Anniversary  
> 3\. Disneyland (Brooke I s2g... )
> 
> I'll try it out and see if I can make it a series or something, maybe featuring multiple authors. Not sure yet. We'll see how it goes.

For someone to whom "sentiment" was a four-letter word, Mycroft sure seemed to put a lot of effort into making himself the definition personified. If he was honest with himself, Greg kind of liked being the only one to see him like that on purpose, laid bare in more ways than one, languid and covered in the physical evidence of their intransigent bond. He'd become something of a Holmes expert in the more than ten years he's known them, a half a decade spent in a shockingly blissful marriage.

 

He wanted to say he made the decision hastily, that it was a result of the gruesome scene he'd closed the books on the night before. It wasn't a murder suicide as the person who phoned 999 thought, and it wasn't gruesome because of the blood. It was gruesome because of how the bodies were arranged, wrapped around each other in a loving embrace. Even Sherlock had been particularly affected, as he swept that Holmesian gaze about the room three times, taking in and cataloguing all detail, sniffed twice, then gave his deductions even more quickly than usual and left without even one disparaging remark for bothering him with something so inane.

 

They were in love but not lovers. Adhira, the woman that lived in the flat had attempted suicide with sleeping pills because she saw no way she could be with the one person she loved most because it was another woman. Her best friend Jahi. Adhira had been expecting someone with a key, but not Jahi. Most likely her parents, in order to show them this was their fault. They checked her phone messages right there, confirming her mother calling to cancel at the last minute when she was already under. Jahi, who had no other close family, had come to be with Adhira to help her endure her parents who were coming to talk over her marriage prospects as was still a custom in Southeast Asian communities. Jahi discovered her best friend's body, returned the sentiment, and in her grief decided she hadn't anything else to live for. Adhira hadn't taken a high enough dosage and woke in the self-inflicted gouged arms of her heart's desire and, at that discovery, finished the job properly. Their respective suicide notes were on the laptop next to the bed with the drained battery. The news called it Juliet and Juliet.   

 

It was really just the straw that broke the camel's back, the camel being his reservations about making it official with the man he had to admit he'd been quite smitten with for some time even before they began seeing each other. Other straws were reasons that included the fact that he wasn't getting any younger and he was pretty sure no one would dare think to ask the great Mycroft Holmes something like that, especially not a copper with one failed marriage and three kids already under his belt, so the surprise factor alone would add a bit of humour to the situation. The kids adored him and vice versa. So he'd proposed, careful not to plan anything too elaborate as Mycroft would know by looking at him. The greatest laugh was when after a poorly improvised but heartfelt speech after which he presented him with ring bearing a small yet tasteful diamond, Mycroft pulled from his own breast pocket, a similar offering with the same question.

 

Five years later, he still wasn't used to being in that posh house, just as Mycroft confessed he wasn't used to being what Greg playfully dubbed, "Arm Candy" at social functions. But Mycroft allowed him his pride in continuing to earn his keep, despite Mycroft having more money than even his yet to be born great-grandchildren could spend in their lifetime and Greg made sure Mycroft felt desired, even if it meant getting him off in one of the caretaker's cupboards during a 'do at the Yard because he simply  _had_  to wear that one suit that made him look like a gangster. Or that tie with the little brollies on it. Or look at him that way. They had to resort to carrying around thin packets of lube and moist towelettes at all times.

 

Unfortunately, the only thing they could do that morning was a two minute snog and a promise to meet later for a nice dinner. Well that's what Greg thought, anyway. He'd flown out of the house before sunrise, with only a square of toast in his mouth, texting Sally to at least have a coffee with extra sugars waiting for him when he got there as the rest of the morning didn't look good as far as eating was concerned. Her answer, a simple 'sorted'. When he arrived on the scene, she thrust a covered cup into his hands and held up the tape for him. He eyed her warily for a moment before ducking under, then taking a sip. This wasn't just coffee, it was ambrosia, it was made from beans grown in heaven by God Himself.

 

"Did you get a pay rise I didn't know about, Donovan?"

 

"No boss." After another long look, he realized he had to get his head in the game. "What've we got?"

 

"Double homicide, looks like. Neither one of the victims live in the building let alone that flat, nor do they know anyone in the area. But, there was no forced entry and people are up and down this hall at all hours yet no one saw anything. It's the fourth floor but the window's locked and hasn't been opened anyway because it's been painted over. Also, their blood has been drained completely."

 

"God is it the full moon again?" he said more to himself than anything before extracting his phone.

 

"Don't bother," Sally told him.

 

"Why not? Look, Sally, I know you still have issues with him for some reason, but-"

 

"Ah! Lestrade! Good of you to join us." The posh rumble emerged from a side room right before the man it belonged to sailed out, dark coat billowing out in his wake. At least he had gloves on this time, ones he was pulling off as he spoke in his normal rapid fire manner. "These two were left here as a warning to the owner of the building Dimitri Kiriakos. They're first cousins on his maternal side, the daughter and son of his Uncle Stavros Pappas, Manos and Petra who are the spitting image of his own adult children Nino and Marie. They were used as hourglasses, a small incision made in their femoral arteries by a scalpel wielded by someone with a medical background, most likely a plastic surgeon. The time they took to bleed out is how long Dimitri had to resolve the debt he owed Persian rug salesman, Ali Jabar. You'll find all of your evidence in the back office of Anchor's Brewhouse in Butler's Wharf. Oh!" He turned at the door, stilling his dancing hands by clasping them behind his back and smiling. He did that a lot more nowadays. "Happy anniversary, Brother In-Law. Do give my best to Mrs. Lestrade." With a wink, Hurricane Sherlock whirled off. Greg had kept his second name so as not be thought of as receiving special treatment. He  _was_  but most of it went unnoticed as Mycroft was very sensitive to his needs. Sherlock had come up with calling him Mrs. Lestrade in the wake of this discovery. Wanker.

 

"Well," Greg sighed. "There's that sorted, then." His visit to the brewery was basically a technicality, serving only to make him hungrier at the smells always permeating the riverside air. The whole ordeal from door to door took three hours, the impending paperwork would perhaps take another hour. When he entered his office however, he found his desk completely cleared of papers and files. A single red rose with one of those posh note cards probably used by the Queen when she wanted to thank someone was propped over it and set dead center.

 

"Donovan?" He called out, eyeing it warily.

 

"Yeah boss?" He heard her approach him from behind.

 

"Know anything about this?" She made a show of poking her head into the room and looking over every surface then just shrugged and, with a cocky grin, walked off. Greg stared after her in shock for another few seconds before going to read the card.  _Come to the front doors_ , it said in Mycroft's fluid hand. What was his husband up to? He still got a little thrill at calling Mycroft that and, with a little grin, did as he was told, grabbing the long box he'd had wrapped in cream-colored paper at the last minute. When he got to the designated area and opened the door to the inevitable black sedan, the seat was empty. He admitted to feeling slightly disappointed but nearly slapped himself. Whatever was happening, he would see Mycroft sometime soon. Unless, this was to make up for not being able to make it. That thought set off another string of worries that only increased when the car drove right out onto the tarmac and stopped by a private plane.

 

He was greeted formally by everyone, but the cabin was empty of his beloved too. There was only the pilot, co-pilot, flight attendant, and the most delicious fucking smells he ever had the pleasure of sniffing. The gift was stowed, he was pleasantly advised to prepare for take off and, fifteen minutes in, he was trying his level best not to get perfectly cooked steak juice on his best work shirt and keep the moans down to a minimum. Mycroft wasn't there to appreciate them fully anyway. He was constantly on an unnecessary diet and got some sort of perverse pleasure out of watching Greg eat. It always lead to several different forms of working out and, for all the exquisite food he got to shove into his gob, he hadn't felt this fit since he was first on the force. The dessert was some sort of gourmet chocolate mousse fairy cake thing and, as he lounged in the seat that was basically a bed with his favourite beer and a match that he'd missed on a dropped down overhead screen, he was almost content. 

 

Greg was awakened several hours later wondering where he was for a moment and feeling a bit guilty about not being kept awake by his very real worry that he wasn't to see Mycroft this anniversary. Nina, the exquisite Indian woman who saw to his every comfort, asked him to follow her to the back of the cabin. She directed him through a narrow door which lead to what was basically a large bathroom, complete with shower and changing area. Only then did he notice the lovely deep charcoal suit hanging on the rack, the sheen hinting at a starlit night without being gaudy and a silver tie. He was told everything he needed was in there.  _Wrong_  his mind supplied, sounding too much like Sherlock for his taste. The truth was, that Mycroft wasn't there. And wasn't that just the exact mind set of a teen-aged girl? Next he'd be drawing little hearts on his case files with MH+GL 4Ever in them. He scoffed and went to clean up. He carefully shaved again after a nice hot shower then slipped on the clothes slowly, savouring the feel of them. Mycroft never needed him physically present to have a suit made for him. Greg grudgingly had several by now, but this one took the cake. Just as he finished combing his silver hair, a knock on the door was Nina letting him know that it was time to prepare for landing.

 

He still had no idea where he was, and he couldn't believe he was hungry again. But then, he really didn't have much of an idea of how long he'd been on that plane exactly. 

 

Another car with the back windows tinted nearly black awaited him, a liveried driver at attention at the back door. At this point, Greg had basically given up on when or even if to expect his spouse. He  just sighed and donned a determined expression. He would try and enjoy himself and whatever happened happened. He observed the buildings as they rushed by, lighting up the night. The palm trees and the side of the car on which the driver sat were a big hint. He wasn't in Europe anymore. What exactly was he doing in bloody  _California_?

 

The driver pulled over to the side of the road and turned on a small screen that was in the headrest of the seat in front of him. Mycroft's dear face appeared and Greg was horrified at the sudden urge to tear up that washed over him, just at seeing it. That voice, the one that could be pretentious or powerful, lithe like a cat or beg so prettily, instructed him that he was to trust the driver to blindfold him for the last leg of the journey. Greg was none too happy about it, but he had complete faith and so only grumbled a little when the cloth was tight round his head. After a few adjustments for comfort, they were off again, a radio station blaring classic rock. Greg counted the minutes by knowing how long the three songs he heard in their entirety were. Twelve minutes altogether. He hated depending on this stranger to be his eyes, but was stoic, not stumbling as he was lead by another silent pair of hands into a smaller open-air vehicle of some sort. He was carted for a couple of more minutes before finally,  _finally_  being put again onto his feet. He smelled... material. Heard the rustling of it, whispers and murmurs and people being hushed in general. It sounded like a good-sized crowd. The blindfold was removed.

 

And there he stood, basking in the colored lights of the massive Cinderella's castle.

 

What. The. Fuck?

 

Ever since he could remember, he'd wanted to go to Disneyland. He consumed all the literature he could find on it. Even now he had quite the collection of Disney things that weren't the children's in a storage building. He'd never told Mycroft about it. He never really told anyone after turning eleven. Even when his kids started coming, he was always too busy keeping food on the table, clothes on their backs, a roof over their heads, and dance and music lessons to be able to bring them even to the one in Paris. He felt idiotic for wanting to go himself first, to get the lay of the land, to plan the perfect holiday. Then his marriage fell apart. Not that he wasn't glad to pay for the children, but it still left very little for him.

 

And now, appropriately, Belle was pinning on his lapel, a red rose. 

 

"There we are," she said in that rather exaggerated way they all had to talk. "Perfect. Shall we?" She stretched her golden gloved hand elegantly out in front of her and Greg grasped it, unable to stop grinning even though his face was already starting to ache. From the speakers hidden all around the park emerged the theme song for Beauty And The Beast, as they walked toward a dais directly in front of the center arch of the castle. Various characters from all of the films and shows lined the royal purple carpet, some singing along, some smiling almost as wide as he was. Greg was dimly aware of cameras going off all around him. As soon as they reached the bottom step, Mycroft appeared out of nowhere and Greg nearly stumbled at the sight of him.

 

He wore a custom made replica of Prince Eric's costume. The military style coat gleamed white in the light, the gold braiding twinkled, the buttons shined. The deep blue trousers left hardly anything to the imagination. Yes Greg was into the classics, but his mind suddenly flew back to a seemingly random question six months before. The children were visiting and Mycroft initiated it, the comparison of Disney princes and princesses. It was unanimous, with his black hair and blue eyes and perfect posture, Mycroft was Prince Eric, give or take a few abandoned follicles that Greg cared nothing about. When it came to his husband's beauty, it was simply unmatched. 

 

Mycroft put his left foot on the step below his right one and extended a hand swathed in bright white, making for an even more dramatically attractive picture. Greg felt as if his heart was visibly beating out of his chest like they did in cartoons as he slowly climbed the steps to take it, unable to remove his eyes from Mycroft's form.

 

"What...?" was all he could get out.

 

"You didn't worry, too much, did you, darling?" Something about Mycroft's pet name for him stirred him deeply every time he heard it.

 

"I... me? Nah." Greg sniffed, licking his lips and enjoying Mycroft enjoying him licking his lips.

 

"You're a detective inspector. You go undercover. How on Earth are you such a dreadful liar?"

 

"I'm a brilliant liar. You just read me too easily."

 

"Is that so?" Mycroft's smile as he raked his eyes down Greg's form was just this side of leering.

 

"Well I don't know, at the moment. Because you're not kissing me yet."

 

"All in due time, my darling. All in due time."

 

Captain Jack Sparrow listed and clinked, and gestured his way into place to perform the short ceremony to Greg's utter delight. He was properly crying by the end of it, tears matching his reflecting in his love's eyes, not falling until he was at last given permission to kiss him. Now that it was time, Greg didn't want to rush it. He wanted to absorb every single second, every ounce of naked adoration he saw there. A smile as big as his own grew damp and Greg held it gently in both hands, wiping the wet away with a swipe of his thumbs. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in, not closing his eyes until the very last second.

 

There were literally fireworks.

 

They broke the kiss just in time to see the last of them before all went dark for a moment except for the coloured lights of the castle and Tinkerbell made her descent, the player costumed in lights and zipping down a high wire from one of the higher turrets to God knows where.  

 

"Happy Anniversary, darling."

 

"Happy Anniversary, love." 

 

"Don't do that." Do what? Feel completely inadequate at the scale of Mycroft's gift to him? All he did was some research into what material traditionally represented the five year mark. Wood. He'd gotten Mycroft a deep blue umbrella with a hand carved handle inlaid with silver. "This is just as much your gift to me as it is mine to you. Do you have any idea about the magnitude of what you've done for me by just loving me unconditionally? Don't ever hide the biggest parts of yourself from me." It was Mycroft's turn to grab his face as well. He tipped it so their foreheads leaned together.

 

"It's not-"

 

"It is," he stressed with a gentle squeeze, then backed up to stare into Greg's eyes. "And in three full days from tomorrow, the children will join us. Remember, I married them as well." Literally. Mycroft gave them rings at the ceremony and vowed to love, honour and cherish as well as protect and teach. It took all Greg had at that moment and this, to not fall to his knees, clutching this amazing man's waist whilst sobbing uncontrollably. "We'd better get to the hotel. We have a busy day tomorrow. Lots of walking."

 

"Not if we do it right."

 

"Oh, do leave me some sort of mobility, darling. It can't be like our original wedding night where we didn't leave the villa for three days. We have mapping to do, activities to plan."

 

"You're right of course," Greg conceded, properly chastised as they were presented one last time to the cheering audience and lead in a stately manner by a footman to Cinderella's white filigreed pumpkin coach, drawn by several immaculately white steeds wearing grand feathered headpieces. When properly seated and waving, Mycroft leaned over and through a chastely smiling expression murmured,

 

"Of course I may just fuck your brains out and do all the planning myself. It'd go more quickly."

 

Greg was exceedingly glad no one else heard him squeak.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Greg's suit: 

  
                                                         

 

                                                                           Mycroft's attire:

                                       

 

                                 Cinderella's Castle at night (Sorry I couldn't find one with Tinkerbell. They actually had some fearless employee do that):

                                        

 

                                                                        Coach:

                                       

 

                                             Mycroft's umbrella handle:

                            

 


End file.
